


Ghost Stories and Honey Cakes

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1690691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Óin and Bifur have been married for a month before Gimli really starts to warm to the idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Stories and Honey Cakes

**Author's Note:**

> for rainuponthemoon, who requested baby gimli hanging out with his #1 coolest favorite uncle bifur. this... fits? yes? sort of?

Óin had expected, upon getting married little more than a month ago, that his daily routine would change, and there would be some alterations made to the household; however, he was not prepared to be greeted home at the end of the long day by a screech of terror.

He jumped at the noise, and blinked fiercely to adjust his eyes (why was it so dark?), before looking around to find the source, and finally his gaze settled on his nephew, Gimli, who sat beside the fire. The flames were as red and wild as Gimli's hair, and the only source of light in the room, because the shutters were closed against the dim rays of the evening. Óin looked at them quizzically, and then at his husband, who seemed a bit sheepish--though not nearly as sheepish as Gimli, who slowly extricated himself from Bifur's protective embrace.

"Hello, uncle," he said with as much composure as a thirty-five-year-old could muster, and turned to Bifur again. "What happened next?" he demanded, and Óin understood.

He chuckled to himself as he hung his bag on its proper hook and went into the kitchen. From there, in the midst of the bustle that accompanied preparing dinner, he could just barely hear the low growl of Bifur's voice, but he knew exactly what was happening, and the reason for his nephew's scream: Bifur was telling him a ghost story. Bifur had a naturally cheerful disposition, which led him to value birds and flowers more than axes and warg-hunts, but he was _excellent_ at telling terrifying stories. He could make his eyes bulge or squint eerily without a second thought, knew instinctively how to tilt his head so that shadows fell upon the axe in the most menacing manner, and spoke in low, guttural Khuzdul that seemed more like the snarling of a beast than the droning pedagogical tone that most Dwarves associated with their tongue.

Óin waited for the end of the story, and then for an extra thirty solemn seconds, before calling out, "What brought you here, Gimli?"

"Amad's still sick," Gimli said as he walked into the kitchen, shivering very slightly in the manner of a boy delighted with his own fright. There was a plate of honey cakes (Bombur's recipe, one of the most precious wedding gifts they had received) on the table, and he carefully swiped two when he thought his uncle's back was turned.

" _One_ ," Óin said sternly. "You'll be put off your dinner."

"Adad wants to know if you ha' more o' that tea," Gimli said, unabashed, through a mouthful of honey cake, and Óin shook his head indulgently as he searched among his bottles for the appropriate jar.

"Run along now, lad, and brew your mother a cup of that--she'll be wanting some with dinner, I don't doubt, and perhaps another before bed. And give her and your da our love."

"Yes, uncle," Gimli said dutifully. He accepted the jar of tea leaves, and stood on his toes to tap his forehead against Oins'--or, more accurately, against Óin's nose. He was a bit of a late bloomer in terms of height, a thing that bothered him sorely, given that all the other branches of the Line of Durin inclined towards tallness. Then he turned to go and found himself in front of Bifur, who had casually joined them in the kitchen. Gimli hesitated, and then stepped forward briskly and hugged him, his face pressed against his beard. "Thank you for the story, uncle Bifur," he said, and then broke away and waved the tea leaves. "And the tea, uncle Óin!"

With that, he was gone, and Óin chuckled at the enormous grin on Bifur's face.

"He _likes_ me," he said delightedly, in a voice so different from that of the fearsome storyteller that an unfamiliar party wouldn't know it came from the same person.

"Aye, and I knew he would," Óin said, shaking his head at the other's doubt.

"Eighteen months, he hasn't liked me."

"Now that's not true and you know it," Óin chided. "He hasn't liked having to share his uncle, that's the thing--he didn't like his sister, neither. I knew he'd come to his senses soon enough. Though Kara and Gloin might like you none, with the nightmares he'll be having."

"Gimli's a brave boy," Bifur said with a shrug. "He'll be fine."

"Hmm," Óin agreed. "And I'm sure that extra honey cake you slipped him will help ease his mind."

Bifur beamed, entirely unrepentant, and sucked a glob of the sticky honey from his thumb.

"He likes me," he repeated.

"Not as much as I do," Óin said, and was rewarded with an even more blinding smile as he began to prepare their own dinner.


End file.
